I?ve always been messing around with old cars.

Bought my first one when I was fourteen.

A 1967 Chevelle.

And when I say I?ve had every single part of that thing apart I mean every goddamn bolt, nut, washer and piece of skin off my knuckles.

Hell I still have it.

That car raised me.

One day I?m out in the front yard tearin the engine down to rebuild it.

1968 327 small block.

Beautiful piece of machinery.

I could already hear that bastard runnin just lookin at it.

This time I was doin' everything myself.

No help.

No shortcuts.

Just so I could stand back later and say yeah, I did every bit of this shit.

Now here?s where it starts goin' sideways.

For reasons known only to idiots and the universe, I decide to use a box end wrench instead of a ratchet.

These bolts had been sittin' there since 1968.

They weren?t comin' out with manners.

So I?m reefin on them like a pissed off yard ape.

Sweatin.

Gruntin.

Talkin' to myself.

Everything?s goin' fine until I get to the last bolt.

Why is it always the last one?

Always.

You can take ninety-nine percent of somethin' apart no problem, and that final bolt goes

Oh no, you fuckin don?t.

So to stop the wrench from slippin I put my finger over the top like I?m some kind of mechanical genius.

The other hand grips the wrench.

I give it everything I?ve got.

And I swear to Christ the birds stopped chirpin'.

The wind quit blowin'.

The sun tucked itself behind a cloud.

Nature knew.

The wrench slips.

My finger slips straight through the end of it.

Next thing I know, the end of my finger is bent ninety degrees the wrong fuckin way.

I?m a big man.

I?ve moved three hundred-pound rocks.

But that finger had me dancin' around the yard like a fuckin hula dancer that just stepped on a bee.

Without thinkin I grab the finger and whip it back into place.

Real smart.

The world starts spinnin'.

My knees give up.

And the grass comes up to meet my face like an old friend.

Lights out.

I come to and feel warm water splashing my face.

For a split second, I think someone?s helpin' me.

Nope.

It?s the dog.

I wake up face down.

Finger throbbin'.

Head spinnin.

Puke on my shirt.

And there?s the dog standing over me, cockin' his leg.

Pecker pointed straight at the motor like he?s marking territory.

So not only did I almost rip my finger off

I passed out in my own puke

and got pissed on by my dog

while my Chevelle watched the whole fuckin thing.

That engine survived.

The dog felt accomplished.

And I learned a powerful lesson.

Never trust the last bolt.

Never put your finger where it doesn?t belong.

And never pass out near a dog with zero respect.

???????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre

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